The Magic of the Crossroads!
by Capitalisationispants
Summary: SLASH! At the crossroads of death is the magic which made both God and Satan. The magic is what chooses who goes where, either heaven or Hell but it disappeared and now resides in the body of Harry Potter and Satan wants it back. He sends his right hand m


**Authors Note: This is an idea that has been roaming around my mind. I hope you like it.**

**Warnings: Blood, Violence, Gore, will be slash.**

**Disclaimer: I do not and never will own anything that belongs in the Harry Potter Realm. This means that any of you who wish to sue me take it elsewhere because i'm only writing for fun.**

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**The Magic!**

**Chapter 1: Prologue**

Blood was everywhere, just like usual. The sounds of screaming souls could be heard, echoing across the vast valley when the dead would walk until they came to the crossroads. Do they go to the left, to Hell or do they go to the right where the house of God was. Heaven. Each soul would like to think they had a choice but they didn't, not really. A much bigger power, something more powerful then either God or Satan already decided it. This other magic was old, pure. It was the magic that invented everything that exists, invented evolution, invented fear. This magic was the first. Both God and Satan was scared of this magic, because they did not like that there was something more powerful then either of them. It was the only thing they agreed on. The magic though may not have had a physical body to show but it had emotions and it was smart. It knew about the rebellious attitudes of God and Satan and it planned ahead. It knew that the time would come when they would try and overpower it; try to use its power. It had already planned where it would go and whom it would allow to hold it within themselves. Someone who would be able to use its power.

The years passed and the time had come. God and Satan's armies had joined forces to try and wield the magic but as it had planned ahead the magic had gone. The crossroads in the valley of death and pain was like any other valley. The souls that came down the valley could now choose where they wanted to go. Most chose to go to Heaven and Hell fell into disrepair. It turned into a place full of pain and suffering because of how angry and bitter Satan became but also because hardly any souls came to Hell, they all wanted to go to beautiful heaven. Satan wanted to find the magic; he wanted to bring it back. He wanted to put it back in the valley where it belonged. He knew he had been a fool to think he could wield the very thing that made him exist. He knew now that he had to bring it back. He would do anything possible to find where the magic was and when he did he would send out one of his few demons and bring it to him so he would kill the human it was residing in, yes he knew the magic would situate itself in a human, and put the magic where it belonged. Many would call him evil but he wasn't he only did what was necessary. Hell would go back to how it used to be. He would make sure of it.

Satan was true the Magic had hid itself in a human. A baby wizard who was born to two loving parents. The Magic could tell that this wizard would grow up to be more powerful then any other wizard even without IT inside of him. The Magic knew that the baby was meant to do great things and IT would repay the wizard however possible for keeping IT in his body. The baby's name? Harry Potter, soon to be called the boy-who-lived.

Sixteen years passed and the Magic was sleeping. It did not interfere in the boys life what so ever. The boy who had gone through so much he wasn't a boy mentally, but a veteran of war. He was a soldier. He was an ongoing war. He was not the stereo typical Hero, or even the stereotypical anti-hero, he was just a guy too lucky for his own good. He was just the guy at the wrong place at the wrong time. No matter how many people needed him, no matter how much he fought evil, he was no hero. Heroes didn't wish that they could leave the dying person to take their last breath alone, heroes weren't as selfish as him, wishing to die so his pain had ended and basically stuff everyone else. Heroes did not wish and revel in inflicting pain on their worst enemy, no matter what, without feeling guilty afterwards, the boy though, loved getting his revenge. There was nothing better then hearing the person who had inflicted some kind of pain on you screaming out for mercy, bleeding crimson and seeing their eyes turn lifeless. He was no hero, just a guy who had a title. A guy who was lucky.

Harry Potter was this guy. He had gone through so much in his life that his soul was damaged. He was no hero. He had done the unforgivable. He had wanted to make someone hurt, he had cast crucio on another living being no matter it being the person who had killed his beloved Godfather. Heroes didn't do that no matter what. He did though and he had loved it. He may not have been able to hold the curse for long, but he would rectify the situation and he would be able to avenge his godfather. Don't misunderstand. Harry is not evil, he would not go around killing innocent people for the sake of it, he wasn't a bigot, he didn't persecute unless you were a death eater of course. He was just dark. He had a very dark outlook on life. He believed in the reality of the world, the pain that everyone went through. He understood human nature much better then anyone else. He understood that most people put on rose tinted glasses so they wouldn't see the brutality of living in this world. The people who did see the brutality of the world, well most of them, are on the news for suicide. Sometimes people can't handle the fact that they would surrounded by bigots, racists, sexists, homophobes, rapists, murderers, beaters, death, destruction, and of course war. They wanted to escape it, they wanted to die.

Harry did not want to die by killing himself. He did not believe in it and he always thought that his godfather, and parents would be ashamed at him because they had all gone out fighting. So he had planned to do that very thing. He would go out fighting, he would make his family proud and then he would be free.

Hearing about the exploits Harry had done you would expect to see the very picture of a hero. Chiselled features, muscles, and bright cheerful eyes. You wouldn't expect him to look like he did. You wouldn't expect to find that the saviour of the wizarding world was a lanky, gaunt teen that looked seriously under weight. You would not expect a saviour to have hard eyes that were dark and glittered like ice, having seen too many things in his short life. You would not expect the teen to seem seriously ill nor to have dark circles under his eyes. You wouldn't expect a hero; one always in the wizarding eye to have messy black hair that looked like it had never been brushed. You would expect the hero to wear top of the range clothes but he didn't he always wore clothes four sizes to big for him. All in all Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, looked like a tramp, like something off the streets you would never give the time of day. He didn't care though. He liked being forgotten about. He liked how many people would hear about how Harry Potter was in the same shop as them and then overlook him when they passed by because, that scruff couldn't be the saviour. The only way they knew he was Harry Potter was by his lightning shaped scar on his forehead. That was the only thing people ever saw about him, his damn scar. Though he would never show how he was feeling. He always hid it behind a well-placed mask of emotions.

Many people thought that Harry wore his heart on his sleeve but he didn't. That was what he wanted people to think. He wanted them to think he was open. He showed them what emotions they wanted, what they expected to see but never what he was feeling. At least this way he had an advantage over Voldemort who wouldn't be able to tell what he was truly feeling. Also this way he got some peace at least. If he smiled and laughed some time, then his friends and everyone else would leave him alone, would think that he was normal, that he was getting on with his life.

Harry sighed as he looked out of his window. He couldn't think about this. He couldn't think about how different he was, or how he didn't want to be anybody's hero. It was becoming so monotonous. He would just go through each day like he usually did. He sighed again and continued to lean on the windowsill looking out of the rooftops of Privet Drive. He watched as the trees swayed in the light breeze and he smiled slightly feeling slightly relaxed.

"**BOY**!" came the loud brutal shout from his Uncle Vernon. Harry just smiled bitterly he knew that the peacefulness was too good to last.

"**BOY**!" Vernon shouted again.

"Coming Uncle Vernon," Harry replied putting on his other mask of small, meek little Harry Potter who was scared of his big fat muggle Uncle. Oh how he wished that Death Eaters would find Vernon and put him through what he put Harry through.

Harry slowly walked down the stairs one hand on the banister, his mask on. He looked soft, he looked scared. He walked into the kitchen his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed slightly.

"Yes Uncle Vernon?" he asked. His towering uncle, who was as fat as he was tall, turned to him, his eyes hard and cruel. He looked as if he had just been told that he was something he despised.

"I just got a letter from your head teacher," Vernon said and Harry truly did wince. This would not be good.

"I don't know why," Harry replied.

"Something about your as your Godfather has died, do we give permission for you to go to Hogsmead," Vernon replied in a sickly sweet voice. Harry said nothing he just looked down at the floor bitterly. It was so like Dumbledore to do this to him.

"As that is the case, I don't care about those freaks. I want you to go back to your normal duties and if there is so much as anything missing, so help me God I will beat you till you're as dead as your freak of a godfather," Vernon hissed thinking he would scare Harry but instead he did the worst thing possible. He made him angry.

"Don't talk about Sirius like that," Harry muttered.

"What did you say? Are you back chatting me?" Vernon said looking shocked, before turning a rather interesting shade of purple. Harry glared at him before shaking his head. He pulled his magic back to him. He could not let anyone see what he was truly like; if he did they would not allow him to fight Voldemort. They would not allow him to get his revenge.

"No Uncle Vernon I understand," Harry replied.

"Good. You will wake up when you are told and make our breakfast again. Get out of my sight," his uncle replied before turning his back to Harry.

Harry could just imagine taking the large carving knife, which was hanging precariously on the edge of the counter, and then shoving it into his uncle's back. He wondered if the knife would do any damage what with how fat his uncle was.

"What are you still doing here boy? Go upstairs!" his uncle roared when he turned to see Harry still standing there. Harry sighed bitterly before walking back up the stairs to his room.

When he walked through his door and shut it behind him he looked around at the small box room. Yes it was small but he knew many of the houses on Privet drive had box rooms the same size as his, which teens stayed in, but they made theirs look nice. His though was stripped to the barest minimum and no matter how many drawings he put on the wall it still looked like a room from prison. He sighed as he walked to the window. He was still furious at his uncle for calling his deceased godfather a freak. His magic was still going haywire but not as bad as it was when he blew up his aunt. For some reason his magic seemed to be deeper, older. He shook his head; he was trying to find trouble again. Of course the magic would seem older, he was older compared to when he blew his aunt up. He was sixteen now. Back then he was thirteen. Maybe he was just becoming more powerful. Yeah that was it, nothing strange about it. He just had more control, more power due to his age and being taught about how to use it. He looked out over the identical rooftops of the neighbouring houses. Why did he continue to look for trouble? Was it because no matter how much he moaned, he felt safe in trouble? Being in trouble was what he was used to. When it was calm and peaceful he didn't know what to do with himself. No there was nothing wrong with his magic. He should just sit back and relax during the summer, no matter about his chores.

When Harry had released his anger, the older Magic had awoken and come alive in leaps and bounds, joining and connecting with Harry's original well of power. It was a part of him now, one that no one could extract from Harry unless they killed him. Satan had felt the rise of the old Magic. He felt it, he knew where it was and he smirked. The magic would come back; Hell would be back to its rightful glory. He looked around at the dead trees; he closed his eyes as a hot, biting sand wind slashed across his face. Yes his home, his Hell would be back to being powerful instead of the slums.

"**MATHUS!"** Satan called for his right hand man. If anybody could get the magic back it would be him. The one more brutal, more bloodthirsty then even Satan himself sometimes. Whilst Satan only killed and butchered for his own rise in power, Mathus killed for the sheer joy of it. He loved feeling blood splashing his face. He loved licking at the wounds of a dying body. Yes Satan would use Mathus, and he would get the magic back. He would give Mathus a present though. He was allowed to do whatever he wished to the human holding the magic, whatever he wished. No matter what Satan would get the magic, who cared about a human anyway?

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**Authors Notes: Well that's the prologue. What do you think? Should I continue please review but flames will be used to keep me warm.**


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